Mumford and Sons, Sigh No More, Sandor Clegane Challenge
by natures in my eye
Summary: A self imposed challenge in which I intend to relate each song on Mumford and Sons album Sigh No More to Sandor Clegane's life. Absolutely no restrictions. Anything from fluff to despair. Assume any warning including but not limited to rape, abuse, suicide, etc. Not always cannon. I go where the song takes me.
1. Sigh No More

_I couldn't get the image of Sandor boarding a ship out of my head so I've played around with a little info from the books. Just roll with it. Also .. I think I may have inadvertently given Jack Sparrow a cameo here. This amuses me._

…...

The salt crusted longboat, pushed itself into the pebbled line of a shore. The Red Keep towered in front of him. It had been years since he'd turned his back on it, and now, he was there to face it once again. It would be easier to pace the halls this time around though. Little sorrow would be had for the both of them since the last time they had been there together.

Five years back, he had lurched drunkenly from the Little Bird's chambers to his own, searching for the last of his Tourney winnings while he wiped at the tacky blood and dried tears on his face. Stranger had been next on his list of the items he wished to take from the Keep. As lost in his cups as he had been an hour ago, adrenaline now blazed through the alcohol to leave him buzzing with focused energy. His limbs felt heavy but his mind was racing down a path he had not yet traveled in his life. Freedom. Twenty eight years old and he didn't have the slightest idea of what the word truly meant. He'd find out soon enough.

Roads seemed a dangerous way to travel. Too many guards to pass that way and his face would draw unwanted attention. If any call had been put out for him he'd have to fight his way through in order to keep the precious independence he'd just gained. On the eastern shoreline some of shipping docks had amazingly dodged the fire. Once he made his way there, he found a single ship hastily leaving the harbor to avoid the spreading green flames; the Captain glad to have him onboard for a price. Leading his horse, he placed silver into the sailor's hand, and put one boot on the ramp to the ship. He froze, one foot still on the dock, before finding his courage and advancing. There was no turning back now. Sandor Clegane had taken the first few steps into his new life.

The churning in his guts during the trip had little to due with the waves; it was brought on by the gripping, terrifying thought that he could do anything from this point forward. He'd seen a lot of land in his time but all under the order of men above him. Never of his own volition. He could go anywhere. His skills as a fighter would give him a position wherever he chose. He could set his own price and terms, not the other way around. There was no end to the possibilities that lay before him. Heart rapidly beating, he took in a deep breath and sighed. It was a new feeling, this almost tangible nervousness. It wasn't fear like the fire had given him. This trembling awareness was life. It was coursing through his veins at a pace he couldn't keep up with. The Captain walked by, seeing his shaking leg, and offered him a bottle. Rum. Not his first choice but it would do.

The only regret he had was the Little Bird he had left behind. His absence was sure to bestow more suffering upon the girl. He felt shame that he had abandoned her, but if he had stayed it would have been his head. He wasn't ready to lie down and die yet. Maybe, one day, they would meet again. If that happened, he would swear the rest of his days to her in service. She was the only master he wished for other than himself.

On the Quiet Isle the Elder Brother picked mercilessly at his memories of the Little Bird. So many whys were asked of him. Why did he protect her? Why did he not beat her as the others had? Why did he seek her out above all others the night the water had burned? He denied the truth. He fought it tooth and nail. Like a rabbit caught in a snare, he didn't realize the harder he struggled, the tighter the noose became. Choking, it poured forth from him one night, tears sliding down his face. He loved her! He loved what would never be his. If he could ever be granted time at her side again, he would never leave it. He would crawl on his belly through coals to have the chance at it. Even if it meant watching her wed another and raise a family; he would bear the torture so that he could continue on in her presence. Months turned into years and he never stopped loving her.

When the Elder Brother had told him of the Queen in the North's struggle he knew the holy man was giving his silent blessing. He packed his few possessions and left the following day. When he arrived there was no other man to stand in his way. The time spent apart had solidified his place in her heart as surely has hers had molded itself to his own. He told her of his love; he was tired of living in fear. The torch he carried for her had set him free of fear. It had carried him through the years of quiet reflection. It had put motion into his feet on that half rotted ramp to the Prayer. It had put strength in his voice when he refused to put himself in harm's way any longer the night of the Blackwater. She had cried at his words before pulling him down and placing her lips upon his, swearing her love in return.

Back on the shore before the Red Keep, his boots half in water and half on land, he turned to scoop his wife up into his arms. She could have walked on her own but he wouldn't allow her to dampen her feet when his arms could provide a solution. He carried her, bridal style, far up onto the shore, where no trace of sea remained. He didn't care who watched. He'd learned to embrace their love; to run towards and not away from that which made him happy. She kissed his cheek before he set her down. One hand on his arm, the brilliant candle of flame in his life led him through the doors of their new home.


	2. The Cave

There had been weeks of rage. They had given the soldier a room with a few other Brothers, in the beginning, thinking company might calm him. They had been wrong. Between his night terrors and his fits of fury, no one wanted to room with him. The Elder Brother hated to do it, but eventually he had to put Sandor in a room by himself. He knew it would make the man feel even more isolated but it couldn't be avoided for the time being. Until the man learned to stop lashing out physically, he had to think of the safety of the other Brothers.

He ended up putting the broken man in the room next to his. That way, if Clegane called out in the night, it would be easy to tend to him personally. His heart weighed heavy for the man. He would wake to horrible sounds of terror coming from the man's room. Stumbling blindly in the dark he would find Sandor, eyes glassy with ghosts only he could see, hands pressed to his ears while he screamed. It would take time to get the man to realize the cries he heard were his own and not the voices of others he had been the cause of in his lifetime. The Elder Brother sympathized. He knew the struggle the mind faced when it was no longer kept busy with its usual distraction of violence or vices.

He visited with Sandor daily. Usually later in the evening so as not to ruin the day for the man, though he knew he risked disturbing the man's sleep. It was a hard choice to make. Everything about the man was difficult, but he knew the fight was worth it. One man's soul returned to him was treasure beyond measurement in gold. Most evenings ended in terrible acts of wrath.

Sandor Clegane had a tongue of fire and fists of thunder. He was far from simple. He found more and more exquisite ways to use his knowledge to try to cause fear in those around him. Never once did the Elder Brother take the soldier's words to heart. Clegane threatened him with violence that never occurred. It was objects and not people that met with the man's hands. He knew Sandor only wished for others to understand the hurt he carried inside him. Slowly, he was teaching the man that, sometimes, words were more helpful than actions.

If Sandor had been an animal, he would have been a frightful beast. A snarling, foaming, biting, clawing, furred atrocity, gnawing at its own foot caught in a trap. But he wasn't an animal. He was a man. A fact that the Elder Brother drove into him daily. Bellowing shouts would ensue, wood would splinter, and dishes would shatter. The Elder Brother wouldn't give up. If he could make Sandor realize that, no matter what he did, there was going to be one person on his side always, the door to healing would open to him. The man thought himself alone when he was surrounded by those ready to help him shoulder his burdens.

It happened a month after his arrival to the Isle. There had been a crack in his rant of the night. The Elder Brother seized it, pushing until he could sense Sandor breaking. Tears were pouring out of the man's eyes while he continued to kick at nothing and holler at all the Gods he could remember. He seemed surprised when he rubbed at his face to discover wetness. And then he had crumbled; falling into a ball on the floor, clutching at his knees while ragged sobs tore through him. The Edler Brother sat quietly nearby. Close enough to be of comfort but still a respectable distance away. When the man wailed, he dared to lay a hand on his trembling shoulder. Sandor didn't shove it away. Progress had been made. When Sandor had lifted himself off the ground, scrubbing at his face with his robes, the Elder Brother had lifted his sleeves to bear his wrists to his struggling companion. The scars were old but still quite visible.

"You'd think, with all my experience handling a knife, I'd have learned to do it properly," he told Clegane. The man nodded back to him. Sandor hadn't taken the same route but he had been close at times. They understood one another.

Rage began to mellow into sorrow. Screams of terror in the night became shuddering cries. Fits of temper became rivers of tears. The local potter was glad the weekly need for new dishes had ceased. It was a new sort of pain for the man to learn to bear but the Elder Brother tried to reassure him it would fade with time just as surely as the anger had. He gave the man a shovel. During the day Clegane buried his sins, and at night he wept for forgiveness.

And then the day came, when he sat with the man and talked of past events. Sandor spoke of a girl, barely a woman, and smiled. A brief twitch of lips grew into grins and laughter over the next few months. He watched the man dabble into new territory; places called peace, tranquility and happiness. By embracing his faults, by seeking forgiveness, Sandor had used his pain to create a foundation on which hope could build upon.

The Elder Brother heard nothing but silence from the room next to his throughout the night. A new Brother joined them and Clegane asked if the man could board with him. Sandor took the man under his wing, mimicking the Elder Brother in council. The wheel of healing had come full circle and he knew that the Hound had died while Sandor Clegane lived.


	3. Winter Winds

Sansa Stark was on her tip toes, her tongue stuck between her teeth. Though she was tall for a woman, the box she wanted was just out of reach. The store had thousands of shoes all stacked from floor to ceiling. The particular pair of Martin's she wanted was, of course, on one of the top rows. She stretched with all of her might, trying to remember the ballet lessons of her youth. It did no good. Every single time her hand came up centimeters short.

One more try, she told herself. She nearly had it, but her fingers slipped off of the glossy cardboard uselessly, causing her to lose her footing. She stumbled backwards, fearing a fall, but hit a wall instead. Confusion struck her for a split second. There hadn't been a wall behind her minutes ago. And then a rough male voice came.

"Oi! Steady on!" the voice shouted.

She spun around. The wall was black. Craning her neck up she realized it was a man not a wall she had staggered into. A giant, skyscraper of a man. He was a pattern of black and gray; black shoes, gray jeans, black shirt, gray eyes, black hair. Long, lanky black hair that was parted sharply to the left and covered half his face. He had a day or two's worth of stubble on his face. Under one arm he carried a shoebox and a thick, charcoal colored coat. In the other hand, he held a now empty cup of coffee. The contents of said cup were soaking through his t-shirt due to her clumsiness.

"I beg your pardon!" she cried, fishing in her purse to find some tissues. She found what she needed, and started to blot at his chest. He stared at her incredulously. Her hand slowed in its actions. Was she feeling that right? He felt like steel. She wasn't trying to exaggerate or be romantic. The monochrome man was solid as brick; no wonder she had thought she'd hit a wall. She poked at him with a finger to make sure. Yes, some sort of man- rock hybrid, she confirmed.

"The fuck?" he growled, smacking her fingers away.

"Sorry," she yelped, yanking her hand back. What in the world had come over her? That had been terribly rude. He looked something between miffed and intrigued.

"What're you after?" he asked, nodding his head at the shelves. His voice was a rumble dragged across a pavement strewn with cigarettes.

"Oh! Um, the red Docs. Size four," she stammered. She was tall but her feet petite.

"Pffft. Got enough red already," he sneered, gesturing to her hair.

"Yes, well, you asked," she mumbled. What was wrong with wearing shoes the same color as her hair? He was.

His hand reached out for the shoes she wanted. He didn't have to stretch at all. The box was eye level with him.

"Here," he said, tossing the correct shoes into her arms, and shoving past her.

"Wait! Hang on!" she shouted. He turned to her, tapping his foot.

"Let me buy you another cup of coffee at least," she smiled. The large man grunted and walked away around a corner. Was that acceptance or refusal? She stood, puzzled and still. His head poked back from around the stacks of shoes.

"You coming?" he barked. She jumped and ran after him. At the till he gestured for her to go first. While she waited on him to finish his purchase she dug her phone out to check her messages. Arya, Gendry and Pod were all trying to get her attention. She skimmed through the texts and started when his voice boomed.

"Red!" he bellowed, now at the door. "Quit messing about. Haven't got all day."

She bit her lip. What was she doing? She'd just offered to buy a strange, almost aggressively gruff man a cup of coffee. He was older than her but not elderly. He probably had ten or so years on her twenty. But she had spilled his coffee and her finishing school years came back to her, the prim Ms. Lockie whispering in her ear that a polite girl would replace that which she lost, broke, or ruined. And Camden High Street was a public as public got. She would be fine, she reassured herself, stepping through the door, which he held open for her; a quick cup of coffee and she never had to deal with him again.

On the street, he put on his coat like it had personally affronted him and she stifled a smirk. They had the same attire; a thick, wool peacoat with the same amount of buttons. Only hers was the pale pink of dawn and his black as night. He tugged at the collar roughly, flipping it up around his neck.

"Where to?" he asked. The bitter wind caught his hair revealing the left side of his face and she bit her cheek hard to stop from gasping. He was scarred on that side. Terribly so, deep twists and valleys of red, blotchy skin covering him from jaw to scalp. It wasn't a hideous site to her, but it was a shock and her eyes must have said so.

"Want a better look?" he growled.

"No!" she automatically answered and then smacked herself internally. "I mean I wouldn't mind. That is I. . ." she trailed off. She was only digging the hole deeper.

He rolled his eyes at her. "Come on then. Where's the coffee?"

She led him across the street and over a few blocks to her favorite shop. It was a popular spot and there was a wait at the counter. Once they were out of the wind she saw him smooth his hair back down over his scars. He leaned against a wall, ignoring her as the line moved along. Soon, the man at the counters signaled it was their turn to order. He smiled at her warmly.

"What'll you have, love?" he asked.

"I'd like a decaf cappuccino, please, with soymilk," she ordered, "and whatever he's having as well, put it on my tab."

"For you, sir?" the barista asked.

She heard her large companion mumble, "Christ, not a sir," before he raised his voice to answer the man behind the counter.

"Large. Dark."

"Italian, Spanish, or French?"

"Jesus!"

"That's not a brand we carry, sir."

"You fucking posh tosser, I'll –"

"The Spanish!" she cut in, desperate to stop whatever was happening from escalating. "He'll take the Spanish!"

"Cream or sugar?"

She was certain the barista had a death wish.

"Black!" both she and the tall man yelled in unison.

Once they had their cups, they walked to the register to pay. She pulled out a credit card and swore she heard him snort. There were candies lined up by the register, and she grabbed a bag of Jelly Bellys on impulse.

"Did you want anything?" she offered, pointing to the sweets. He shook his head.

"Are you sure? I don't mind, you –"

"I said no," he barked.

"Fine, fine" she answered, taking her credit card back from the pretty girl at the till. "Did you want to sit?" she questioned, pointing out one of the few free tables. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, glanced at it and shrugged.

"Suppose I got a minute."

"So, what's your angle then, Red?" he probed once they had taken a seat.

"Nothing and my name is Sansa. I spilt your coffee. The proper thing to do would be to get you another."

"Proper," he snorted, taking a gulp of his coffee and grimacing.

"Is something wrong with it?" she questioned, blowing on her own.

"It's hot," he grumbled.

"Yes, well coffee generally is," she stated.

"You taking the piss?"

"No, I'm only suggesting you wait a moment before you try to bolt down hot coffee," she scolded.

"It's fucking boiling."

She thought it best to let the issue go and busied herself with trying to open her packet of jelly beans. The plastic package wouldn't give. She pulled and tugged at it and still it wouldn't open. He let out an irritated noise, reaching across the table to snag the bag of sweets out of her hand. Ripping it open with his teeth, he placed it back in front of her. She stared at him with her mouth open.

"What?" he barked.

"You're very . . . direct," she observed.

"That a problem?"

"No," she answered honestly, surprising herself a bit. He was sharp of tongue but he had gotten the shoes down for her. And he had held the door for her. He wasn't as rude as he wanted people to think he was, she thought. Pouring some of the jelly beans out on the table she offered the bag to him. When he frowned and shook her head, she dumped a dozen or so of them in front of him anyway. He scoffed, scooping them all up and shoving the entire fistful in his mouth at one time. She stared at him in horror.

"What?" he asked her again through a mouthful of gooey sugar.

"That's . . . .that was disgusting," she said in shock. "That had to have tasted horrid. Was it?"

"Try it," he dared, grinning at her. She looked down at her neatly arranged piles of each separate color. She liked lemon the best, then orange, and then green apple. She never ate the licorice ones. Shrugging, she took one each of every color, including licorice, and tilted her head back, like he had done, to knock them back into her mouth. She chewed thoughtful for a total of five seconds before reaching for a napkin to spit the soggy wad out.

"That was wretched!" she cried while screwing up he face in distaste.

He laughed at her until he had to rub at his eyes. "Bloody hilarious," he chuckled.

It might have been an embarrassing situation but she found herself entranced by his laughter instead. His voice changed when he laughed. It was warm and smooth; rich, dark chocolate instead of gravel and ash. His phone on the table lit up. He grabbed at it, scrolling for moment before he stood up.

"I gotta run. Shift starts soon. This was. . . . alright," he said pointing between the two of them. He pulled out his wallet, which had seen much better days and tossed a card onto the table.

"You want you could drop by some night. Tell them I sent you. They'll let you right in." He saluted her with his coffee. "Thanks for the cuppa coffee, Red"

"My name's Sansa!" she huffed at his backside, while he took off through the crowd. She wasn't certain if he heard or not. He never turned around. Picking up the card on the table she read out loud, "Sandor Clegane. Security. Sound Technician." That was an interesting combination, she mused. He had the build for security no doubt, but the other bit intrigued her. It had his number on it as well and the name of an establishment she wasn't familiar with. She drew a finger along the card for a moment before pulling out her phone and typing in his number. Then she pocketed the card and made her way back onto the street. It was time to head home anyway.


	4. Roll Away Your Stone

They'd promised him fair wages, women and wine. They gave him wretchedness, sorrow and despair instead. The wages did little beyond covering the cost of a few bottles and a whore per week; each as sour as the other. They had promised a place where rage would flow outward to become something better. Glory they called it. The glory was a sham; a horrible lie that he caught onto quickly. Men were easy enough to plow down. It was slay or be slain. But the women and children? What was the sense in that? What glory was there in splattering the streets with the blood of innocents?

All the men around him seemed to be of two camps. Either they relished in what they did, to the point of monstrously immoral acts, or they hid behind titles, lands and bloodlines. The second camp could be just as cruel as the first; but the second lied about the pleasure they took while the first boasted of it. He found himself stuck somewhere in between. He never felt at home inside either one. He didn't like discovering that, if we were forced to choose, he would prefer the first set of men over the second. Gregor belonged to that first group of men. And that made his hate and rage boil over. They were bottom feeding, vile, depraved men but at least they were honest.

Honesty seemed important to him. He was himself a piece of low life shit but at least he never denied it. The Sers were all of them liars and that was somehow more evil than Gregor's way of doing things. It was a sickening circle of confusion. So he soldiered on as best he could; neither Ser nor monster.

He couldn't stomach the idea of rape. There weren't many who thought like him. Most men considered it their right after a hard won fight. He had tried, several times, but every time he held while they kicked and fought he would flash back to a little boy struggling inside of a world of flame, while some one massive forced him down and laughed and laughed. No, raping wasn't in his nature. The memory of the fire stilled his hand as well when beatings came into play. Some men liked to use their fists on a girl to send her into bloody oblivion rather than fuck her raw. He still found no sense in it.

There had been a great part of him that had died that night long ago at the hands of his brother. He understood that much. What tore at him though was the fact that he had thought there might be something of him left; some small part that could be saved and coaxed back to life. He had put faith in the Lannisters that service and loyalty would grant him redemption. It had not. Bridges burnt behind him and the grace they had swayed him with turned out to be a self awareness that he was made up of nothing but darkness. Bits of him perished, hardened, became lost, or numbed. The small pleasures he took were dark; men's blood, plenty of wine and whatever whore would have him. The pleasures of light eluded him. After many long years he stopped trying for them and let the darkness dominate him. It was easier that way. Struggling against it took too much energy, better to let it overtake him. Then he would know peace.

But he didn't. The two faced fucks he observed as a sworn shield made the world swirl crimson before him. He gave himself up to mocking those he hated but it gave him no pleasure in return. His life became nothing but a sick distortion of the hypocrisy he saw all around him. Verbally pissing on all their vows brought him nothing. It took more wine to allow his mind a very brief reprieve. Whores became less tolerable as they were also nothing but painted lies, just as false and insincere as Sers. Years of hate built up inside him.

The girl was infuriating. Not only did she worship the cocks in gold armor but she treated him with the same honor. That couldn't be allowed. Either he'd teach her to hate him or them but there was no way in all the Seven Hells he would allow her to put him in the same category as cunts like Trant. She learned. More so from them than him self. He would growl and she would shake, yet stay near him; sometimes touch him for fucks sake! The others beat her and she started to see. He watched, with an almost perverse sense of glee, for the moment her spirit would deflate and die just as his own had. Only it never did. Abuse was heaped upon her, from their hands and his tongue. She grew stronger and wiser but the core of her never changed. There was kindness, perhaps pity and, fuck it all, understanding behind her actions. There was never one whiff of hate or malice.

It shamed him; a little girl a better man than he. It gutted him and sparked something inside him he thought impossible for him to feel. No matter how hard he tried to starve that spark, one glance from her, one word, would be enough to keep it fed for days. And then it started to grow! For the first time since the coals he found himself terror struck. Nothing he did could stop the damned thing from growing larger every day. He spent years of saved Tourney gold on reds of every kind, liquid and flesh and it did no good. His soul, what little tatters of it remained, thirsted only for her. If she could love him then he would have finally found something within himself to be proud of. To earn the affections of Sansa Stark meant he wasn't hopeless after all. It was all insanity of course. A highborn lady loving a dog? It was fucking ludicrous. But sometimes the tone in her voice told him other wise.

The night the fire swallowed the water he'd had enough. He'd seen the most hateful, dark side of men and women. He'd participated in the lowest of acts and the most violent of killings. None of it could have prepared him for the site of thousands of men all burning at once, their voices a collective scream of agony. No one deserved to die like that.

He vomited three times during the battle, the smell of cooking flesh mixing with salt and fish to gag him. The sea's breezes would waft the mixed odors over him and he'd wretch uncontrollably; the smell bringing back memories of weeks of tortuous pain, lying in a bed surrounded by that same scent. He lost a horse and nearly his head several times. There was a call for retreat to try and rally the men's strength. There would be no more fighting out of him. He was shaking, splatters of vomit still clinging to his hair. He was caked in blood and earth. And what for? So he could continue to die piece by piece instead of all at once? So the Lannisters could gain more wealth and power off the sweat from his brow and the blood from his body? So that men could burn while he stood safe?

Fuck all of it. He was finished. He told them as much while gulping down wine. If he'd had any strength left he would have pulled out his cock to piss on their boots. He put his foot down, firmly settling a stake into the ground of his own independence. He'd finally figured it out. No one was going to give him what he sought; not the Lannisters, not fucking, fighting or drinking. The only place he could find that which he had spent his entire life seeking was within him self. If he didn't have the courage to break his chains he didn't deserve to be free of them in the first place. The Imp took over, allowing him to slip off into the Keep. He was still a liar though. He wasn't the single object able to grant him peace. There was one other that could give him all he needed. He was certain of it.


	5. White Blank Page

First . . . this one plugs into Gravedigger's Battle if you know where to look. A little bit of book, a little bit of show . . . bam.

White Blank Page is my favorite song of all time. I never had a favorite until I heard this song. I have always, ALWAYS interpreted this song as the first verse is the singer addressing him/herself. After that, from the chorus until the end of the song, they are addressing the "lover" figure. I know a lot of people like to think of it as the first verse is addressing the person that is now with the one the singer loves. I just never saw it that way. I always thought the first verse was the singer asking questions of them self. So it fits in perfectly for me on Sandor's thoughts while he waits for Sansa during the battle of the Blackwater. Seriously, what more perfect backdrop could there be?

Here's my favorite version.

watch?v=I_Od0PJp6GI

And yeah, I'm forcing the lyrics down your throat on this one.

Can you lie next to her  
And give her your heart, your heart  
As well as your body  
And can you lie next to her  
And confess your love, your love  
As well as your folly  
And can you kneel before the king  
And say I'm clean, I'm clean 

[Chorus]  
Tell me now, where was my fault  
In loving you with my whole heart  
Oh tell me now, where was my fault  
In loving you with my whole heart 

A white blank page and a swelling rage, rage  
You did not think when you sent me to the brink, to the brink  
You desired my attention but denied my affections, my affections 

[Chorus] 

Lead me to the truth and I will follow you with my whole life  
Lead me to the truth and I will follow you with my whole life

…

There'd been a whore once. Back when he was still green; not quite a man, though he'd done everything else at that point a man might do. The warmth of blood on his hands, and not a woman's touch, was the first heat he had known. He had been gangly for a time as he grew. Gregor got all the strength right from the womb it seemed. He had to wait for his. Sometimes he thought perhaps Gregor had taken it all for himself, leaving him with nothing but a scrawny body and a burnt face, a pathetic second son indeed. He grew taller before he acquired any noticeable bulk. At thirteen he went from barely able to reach his father's height to having to stoop when entering a room. At fourteen, muscle started to cover his bones at an alarming pace. He was ecstatic. By the time he had reached his fifteenth name day he finally had something he was able to brag about. Paired with his vicious temper, his new found power gave him a reputation worthy of the name Gregor had bestowed upon him.

He wasn't sure who exactly ordered the whore. All he could remember was there had been a skirmish, he had fought well and some of the men above him had decided, in the drunken revels after, that he looked and acted enough like a man to have a chance at a woman. They shoved his half drunken arse into a tent and told him not to come out till morning. They slapped at his back, laughing and wishing him luck. Stumbling in the dark tent, he made out a small figure on a weathered cot in front of him. The air smelled sweet, like honey and lavender. A woman's voice filled the tent, calling him "Ser" and asking him what his pleasure was. He didn't know. There was still a skin of wine in his hands and he pulled from it deeply, hoping it might tell him what the proper response was. She seemed to sense what was happening.

"How old are you?" she asked.

"Old enough," he told her, his voice coming out strangely high pitched.

"You're big," she stated, lifting herself from the rickety bed and taking a few steps towards him.

"Aye," he agreed.

"Let's see how big," she breathed, running her hands down over his cock still encased within his breeches. It didn't take long for her to get an eager response. She giggled and told him she approved. He tried hard not to moan but couldn't help himself. He'd never felt any other hand there besides his own. It was entirely new, the feel of someone else on him. She slipped her hand down between skin and linen and he whimpered when he felt her fingers encircle him.

"Mmmmm," she hummed at him thoughtfully. "Don't spill on me yet greenling, there's more." He gasped when she removed her hand from him. Of course he understood there was more to it than that but, fuck, he felt ready to burst now. She drew him back towards the cot, looked from him to the bed, tsked, and grabbed at the furs covering it. She threw them onto the ground.

"It will be easier this way," she told him. He didn't give a damn about where she tossed the blankets. She could have shoved them up Gregor's arse for all he cared; he didn't need furs at that point, just something solid to lay her down on. In the dark he could make out her shape but there were no details. He wanted to see what the woman looked like. She was disrobing and he was desperate to get a good look at what would soon be his. Lighting the oil lamp on the small table, he turned to face her. And that had been a terrible mistake. She shrieked and hid her face. He felt his stomach plummet, while his cock shriveled.

"They didn't tell you," he rasped, shame holding him tight. She shook, half naked and bravely moved her hands from her face.

"They did," she whispered, lowering her eyes to the floor. "I'm sorry. Where do you want me to lie?"

He felt as if he might cry. From joy or sadness, he wasn't sure, but he hated either one. Approaching her, he tried to pull her dress off of her. She let him but trembled and wouldn't look at him. Milky white, soft flesh was within his grasp. He kneaded at her breasts with his dark, calloused hands but got no reaction from her. He tried to kiss her and she turned her head so all he caught was her jaw. Her fingers started to work at the buttons of his breeches but he felt none of the spark from her that she had when they were both covered in shadows. There was absolutely no response from his cock. He knew it was false love she was giving him but it had seemed real enough a few minutes ago. Now that his face was bared to her the blatant lie she was upholding was also exposed.

"Do you want the light out?" he barked. He couldn't go through with it. Mad as he was to feel a woman, he couldn't plunge himself into someone who clearly wanted nothing to do with him. If darkness was what it took to have the illusion back he'd give it to her. He could do without seeing her. He didn't want to see her anymore. She'd reminded him how loathsome he was and it angered him. He only wanted to feel now. She nodded her head meekly and apologized again. He blew the lamp out, waiting for her to take over once again.

The absence of light gave her courage, and there on a pile of furs on the ground, he lost himself inside a woman for the first time. She rode him the first time around, then rolled him over and showed him how to take the reins himself. There was pleasure to it. Blinding, intense spasms took him again and again that night but between their tumbles he kept seeing her face within his mind, frozen in terror by the light of a lamp. Each time he had a woman after, at some point in their rutting, he would see that first one's horrified face.

For some reason the sweet smelling, black haired whore was all he could think of, staring down at the Little Bird's empty bed. He drank from the wine skin in his hand as he had learned to do years ago. The bloody thing was silent as ever, never giving up any answers. There was another sweating skin on the table beside her bed for when the one in his hands gave out. It was his fourth now he drank from. Or was it his fifth? Didn't really matter anymore, he thought, swaying a bit. He looked at the bed, at once furious and miserable. He'd dragged her out of that bed enough times by order of the cunt King, but he would never lower her onto it. But he could, a sinister voice in his head told him. If he could make up his mind one way or the other, if he could decide if he were monster or Ser then he could either take or court. Except there was no time left for courting, as if he had even the slightest idea of how to go about that buggering mess. He'd have to flee long before he could try and make her see him. And the other choice? He drank more wine and cursed at every God he knew of. He hated the whole fucking lot of them for giving him the sight to see the monsters but not the appetite to join them fully.

If he hadn't been so damned ugly, if he hadn't had years of hate built up under him, if he had only had more time maybe he could have learned to be what it was she wanted. Or she could have found something inside him worth having. He could have had her body and her heart. It hit him hard that he wanted the latter far more than the former. But she would never, never give him that, so he stuck to fantasizing about what it would be like to bed her instead. He squinted at her pillows, trying to see her red hair fanned out across them, loose curls spiraling down her body to barely cover her breasts. He would lower himself onto her, confessing his desires and she would say sweet words of devotion back at him while he wept into her belly, her hands trailing through his hair while she told him he wasn't a beast- and when the fuck had dreams of bedding a young woman turned into visions of him weeping? He sucked down the last of the wine in his hand and reached for the skin on the table. He paced the floor furiously. He didn't need this! This feeling; an ache so solid he truly could sense it. If he had a knife that could dig deep enough he'd carve it out but he doubted such an object existed. All he would manage to do would be to scrap out his own heart. He'd leave it at her fucking feet and maybe, finally, be rid of her and the feeling.

His eyes scanned wildly around the room, her trinkets illuminated by the green glow of fire. He shuddered. The bloody fire still raged on outside. His face felt like it had been set aflame all over again. He rocked on his feet, his eyes taking in the sight of dolls, pots of solid oil perfume, colored glass bottles, and silky stitched handkerchiefs. The one on her dresser looked out of place. It wasn't delicate and colorful like the others. He took a step closer and his breath caught in his throat. It was tattered and worn; not a handkerchief at all, but a piece of cloth torn in the rough shape of one. It had old blood stains on it. His heart beat madly in his chest. He had told her to keep it but he never thought she actually would. And it sat on her dresser, where she could see it, touch it, every day. What did it mean? He was a fucking coward. He could take on dozens of men at a time while a little girl left him scared shitless. His fingers reached out for it, trembling, and he shoved the thing in his pocket before he could change his mind. If it was out of sight he didn't have to think about what it might mean.

But the seed had been planted and started to grow. She could have gotten rid of the scrap; lost it, burned it, buried it, tossed it on the midden heap and forgotten all about it. But she didn't. She'd kept it. She put it plain sight where she would come across it every day. And, the Gods damn them both, he didn't know what it meant. He needed more time. He knew the saved token meant something. Something of importance. Sometimes her chin stuck out when she spoke to him. Sometimes her eyes flashed when they held his own. Sometimes she forgot to shake when he was near. It all meant something, something, something his mind couldn't grasp.

Falling into a large chair it came to him. He didn't have to leave the city alone! She could come with him. Her safety would be assured with him as her escort. Brute strength would keep her near him until his mind could figure out what the something was. Time was what he needed and if he could convince her to come with him he'd have it. Laughter started to take him though when he thought of the two of them on the road; the highborn Little Bird ankle deep in mud and horse shit, soaked by rain and hungry. His body shook with dark laughter. She wouldn't come. He'd offer, he wouldn't be about to stop himself, but he knew deep down in his blackened heart she wouldn't come.

Manic, wine fueled laughter turned into a hiccup and tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. He swiped at them angrily. She wouldn't come. The fact was enough to sober a man, he thought, taking down more red to remedy the issue. All he'd ever done, nearly from the start, was love her. Fucking love. It was a wretched feeling. For once in his life he'd let something other than hate, lust or fury have him and what thanks did he get? Nothing but more pain than he felt able to bare. He deserved something else by now didn't he? He was a man long grown and not one bit of light had ever touched him. She was made of nothing but light and he wanted just one ray of it to call his own. It wasn't too much to ask for was it?

There was a quill and textured, cream paper on the table next to him. He'd fucking show her. He'd tell her every awful thing she'd made him feel. She thought him hateful? His letter would let her know how cruel she'd been to him as well. She accepted protection from him but shuddered when he gave her the faintest glimpse of affection, causing him to drink and whore in order to try and purge her from his mind. He'd write it all down clear as day for her innocent blue eyes to read and feel guilty over. Then she could feel inferior as well! Taking up the quill, he tried for the ink well, missed, growled, and tried again. He was determined, ready to scrawl out angry sentences of hate and love. The pen hovered above the white blank page and the words wouldn't come. He waited. Nothing. He tore through memories in his mind, trying to grab onto one he could start with. But all he could see were eyes full of kindness and hair made of fire. All he could feel was longing; his age old friend rage, whispering in his ear that he was still a craven mongrel. A single drop of ink fell, marking the pristine page with a horrible stain. He wasn't drunk enough not to catch the symbolism in that. In the end his wine numbed fingers scratched out the only thing he could give her. A last promise that she could collect at any time, should their paths cross again; advice he'd given her before but still held true. He didn't bother signing it. She would know whom it was from. Folding the note, he put it back on her dresser, where the borrowed bit of cloth had lain and went back to staring at her bed.

" _A dog will die for you but never lie to you"_


	6. I Gave You All

The unsettling feeling that took her when Sandor stormed off had turned into a terrible, gut twisting nervousness. The warm, half bottle of Stella in her hand had long ago lost its label, picked clean off by her fidgeting fingers. She'd chewed all her fingernails down to the quick. So much for growing them out, Sansa thought to herself. Not that it really mattered. Joffrey was the one who liked long nails and she had finally told that little shit to stay away from her. Sandor was the one who looked at her neatly manicured nails and scoffed, telling her she didn't need to go to so much trouble for men. He never expanded on the thought but she now realized he had been speaking about himself alone. He had always been speaking about himself and she'd been too dim to figure it out until recently.

After her break up with Joff she had sought out Sandor. She thought the news would have pleased him. He hardly ever seemed truly happy and she had wanted to see him smile while she told him how wrong she had been. But he had raged like always, shoving her out of his path, and then catching her hand when she lost her balance, before giving her a disgusted look and leaving her. The last she had seen of him was his backside as he pushed through the crowd, a bottle of Jack in his tightly clenched fist. She felt wretched. He was only there because she asked him to support her and she'd somehow ruined the evening for him with her confession.

She kept close to Bronn after that. Her appearance was expected and it was still early on in the evening. Her work was on display after all. There were too many of Joff's lackeys about and if she couldn't feel safe near Sandor's side, Bronn was the next obvious choice.

"Let 'im cool off for a bit, love," Bronn had told her. "He's not right up in the head sometimes. Not that any of us are," he laughed. "You know. He doesn't mean to be such a shit. He'll feel sorry for it later. Good on you for dropping the twat. Our dog's mad for you."

So she stood, back to back, with one of Sandor's only friends; probably his single true one besides her self. Scanning the crowd, she looked for Sandor over and over again only to be disappointed. Behind her, Bronn was chatting up two girls. Someone pushed by her, an irritated looking couple and she heard them whispering harshly to one of the black suits Joff had hired for the evening.

". . .can't get our things," she heard the man saying. "The door's locked and there's some guy spouting off at the mouth inside. He won't open it. He keeps yelling filth at my wife."

Oh god, she thought, tapping on Bronn's shoulder. "I think he's in the coat room," she whispered into his ear. "Can you keep them busy for a minute?" she asked pointing to the prim looking couple.

"Right, careful with 'im. You know he bites worse when he's in his cups," Bronn warned her, turning his attention to the couple and the suit. "Gentlemen. Lady," he started, nodding and winking to the short, brunette half of the couple. "No need to make a scene at such a lovely party, eh? His bird's gonna sort it all out. Give 'er a tick and . . ."

Sansa didn't catch the rest of Bronn's speech as she ducked through the crowd, setting her drink on a table. She hadn't had a sip of it in hours anyway. It was more for show than actual pleasure. Her stomach hadn't been up for alcohol since she'd upset Sandor and she was grateful for her clear head now. She had some time to, hopefully, get Sandor to open the door while Bronn worked his usual charm. If Sandor had finished off that bottle she'd seen earlier in his hands there was a definite chance for a scene, and possibly much more, to occur. Her stomach rolled with anxiety. There was still much she had to understand about Sandor but she was getting better at it. If she was near he wouldn't go violent on them all. He might cuss and scream and holler but he wouldn't add fists. If she could stay near him and get him outside, maybe home, he could destroy all he wished without anyone else getting involved.

The coat room door was, indeed, shut and locked when she tried the knob.

"Fuck off!" came his voice from inside the room. She sighed. He was a mess. An absolute mess and sometimes she wondered why her heart had chosen him. But it had. There was no denying it any longer. She looked at him and felt it stop. He talked with her and it speed up. Her heart spoke to her more loudly and more often when in his presence than it had ever done so before in her life. He was a wreck but he wasn't unsalvageable.

"Sandor," she tried, knocking lightly on the door. "Open up. Please. Let's go somewhere else. You and I alright? Wherever you want to go."

"Red?" he asked. She bit her lip. He sounded bewildered.

"Yes, it's me. May I come in?" It was better to ask and appeal than coerce and control.

"Go away," he moaned. "Fly away little bird. Let me be."

There was something different. He wasn't kicking at the door, spitting out obscenities. He sounded weak and broken. It made her worry. It wasn't like him. Reaching up into her hair she found two bobby pins and twisted them straight. Picking at the lock she soon heard a click and turned the knob of the now opened door. Bless you, Arya, she silently thanked her more resourceful sister.

He was sitting propped up against the back wall. There was, as she had suspected, an empty bottle in front of him and, not entirely surprisingly, another two thirds full one in his hands. His hair was mussed, as if he'd been pulling at it. He looked up at her with red rimmed, suspiciously wet eyes.

"The fuck you doing, Red?" he sighed, no more fight left in him. It was completely throwing her off. She'd never seen this side of him before; quiet, forlorn and sad. Kneeling down close to him she let her frilly skirts pool on the floor around her.

"I said I loved you. I meant it. I'm not going to let you sit here on a cold floor all night."

He laughed but there was no joy behind it. It was a mirthless, dark chuckle. "Little girl, you have no idea what you're getting into," he said, shaking his head and swigging from the bottle of amber.

"Do you want me to go?" she challenged. "Tell me to leave you alone and I will. Tell me to go away and never come back." He glared at her but she saw his chin tremble ever so slightly. He said nothing; only took another pull from the bottle. She watched the level of the liquor go down farther. This needed to stop. He was looking for his answers in the wrong place. She had them if he would ask.

"Are you going to share any of that?" she tried, pointing at the bottle. He snorted and passed it to her, his eyes lighting up with eagerness. Taking a small sip, to buy time, she instantly sputtered and coughed while he roared with laughter. Well, at least she had gotten him to smile somehow, she thought. There was a knock at the open door. Turning her head, she saw Jaime's blonde spikes.

"Knock, knock," he called. "Bronn said you might need a hand. The suits are getting edgy."

"Oh, thank God!" she yelped, standing in a hurry. Sandor reached out for the bottle still in her hands but she raised it up over her head. There was no way for him to grab it while he remained seated. "Let it alone. You've had plenty."

"I say when I've had enough!" he bellowed, trying to stand. He made it halfway before he lost his footing and sat back down. "Fuck!"

Walking to Jaime, she pressed the bottle into his hands. "Get rid of it," she beseeched. "Pour it down the sink."

"Right," Jaime agreed. "What's gotten into him?"

"I broke things off with Joff. I'm sure you heard." The blonde nodded his head. "I told Sandor about it. I . . .I told him I loved him. He told me I was stupid little girl and well. . ." she trailed off, waving a hand up and down at Sandor who now had his head tipped back, staring at the ceiling. He had heard her though.

"She is!" Sandor shouted, his usual gruffness back now that they had company. "She's a stupid little girl full of stupid fucking romances and I hate her!"

"Shut up, ya' drunk bastard," Jamie hollered back. "Christ, you're like a five year old with a fistful of pigtail. You don't hate her. No one thinks that's true. Sober up and get yer head straight." The blonde gave Sandor a pitying look and turned his attention back to Sansa. "I don't know why you bother with him but you're the best shot he's got at something. You want me to call for a car? You need help getting him out?"

She wanted to politely refuse but she remembered Sandor's attempt to stand on his own. She might be able to support him but there was no way she could get him up off the ground without assistance.

"Yes, please," she said gratefully. Jaime cared for Sandor in his own way whether Sandor wanted to acknowledge it or not.

Jaime nodded at her. "Back in two shakes."

….

At his door he leaned into the concrete wall, fumbling at the edge of his pocket, his fingers clumsy from alcohol and his jeans too skinny. They'd be here all night if she left it to him. Gathering up some courage she batted his hand away and shoved her own hand down into his pocket. She fished around easily with her small hand, praying she wouldn't find something other than keys and wasn't successful. He dressed to the left then. Wonderful, she snorted to herself, this was not the way she had wanted to have a first grab at his cock. He sucked in a loud breath through his teeth and slammed a palm into the cold concrete.

"Fucks sake, Sansa," he moaned into the wall, sending shivers down her spine. Finally her hand wrapped around metal!

"Sorry," she squeaked, removing her hand suddenly. Her fingers shook as she tried for the lock. This was a horrible, terrible, wonderful, thrilling idea of hers, getting him settled all on her own. The door clicked open and she let him lean on her shoulder again while they entered his apartment. She'd never been inside before. She'd met him here but had never gone across the threshold. It made her feel daring. Flicking on some lights, she surveyed their surroundings while he protested loudly and covered his eyes.

It was cleaner than she had expected. Much cleaner. Tidy and organized. She had thought there would be a chaos inside to match his personality but it wasn't so. It was neater than her own rooms! No odds and ends lying about, no dirty dishes in the sink. Everything gleamed from what she could see. The thought struck her that she knew very little about the man that had captured her heart. It made her sad. She hadn't been doing a very good job at befriending him. Not really. She vowed to do better.

"Where's your bedroom?" she asked. He pointed down a hallway to the left.

"You going to sing me to sleep little bird?" he rasped. She didn't know if he was serious or not. Her first instinct was to think he was mocking her but his tone was back to being low and gentle; almost scared. It was unbelievable.

"If you like," she told him softly. She'd gotten him to the bed and he was shaking with his harsh, joyless laughter again. Tugging at his boots she managed to get them off of him, dropping them to the floor. She scooted up on the bed and smoothed his hair. He went silent and stone still immediately.

"Try to rest," she soothed. "I'll stay on the sofa alright? Shout if you need me."

Standing, she turned but yelped in shocked surprise when an arm, swift as a trap gripped her around the waist and pulled her back onto the mattress. He was so strong! Was this the same man that had staggered down a hallway minutes earlier? He had her pinned against him, pressing his chest and hips to her back. She could feel him; a bar of iron trying to thrust into the soft flesh of her arse.

"You said you'd sing," he growled. There was no moisture left in her mouth to make any sound. She couldn't protest or agree with him. There was a deep sinking feeling in her stomach when she realized the song her wanted from her. She'd give it, willingly, if he would let her.

"I could take it from you, stupid little girl. What'd you think would happen coming here? I could fuck you till you screamed," he hissed in her ear. Then he bit her! She gasped. She couldn't help it. She wanted him as well but it was so sudden. Or was it? They'd been dancing around each other since day one. One of his hands had traveled up to cup at her breasts, pinching her through the fabric of her dress. He pushed his length into her arse cheeks again, calling out his own pleasure.

"I could put my hand 'round your throat, and choke a song out of you. A pretty little death rattle eh?" he said in a sinister tone, slipping the hand at her breast up to her neck and applying pressure. "Stupid fucking girl. I could do it. Done it before. You wouldn't be the first."

Her heart slammed in her chest. He wouldn't. She knew beyond all doubt he wouldn't but it was frightening to hear him talk that way. He'd hinted at killing before. She didn't know details but she believed him. And that was key; to have faith and belief in him no matter what darkness he might reveal. She'd been witness to others rebuking his claims and it angered him like nothing else. It was alright to correct him if he tumbled into self hatred or doubt. Gentle words could coax him away from those thoughts. But when he spoke of his past, of deeds he had done, of what he was still capable of, it was best to agree, never deny. He was Sandor Clegane past, present and future and nothing else. That's what he wanted; someone to notice and stand by him.

She swallowed hard, forcing her voice to work. "I know," she told him simply. "I'll sing for you. You don't have to make me."

The hand at her throat stilled, loosened and then trembled. She could feel his face at the nape of her neck, rubbing and trying to bury himself into her skin while he clutched at the front of her skirts.

"I wouldn't hurt you," he choked. "I'd never hurt you. I'd take care of you." There was a force inside her. A solid ball of hurt and empathy for the man. She reached for the hand near her core, squeezing it tight.

"I know," she repeated. His breath shuddered onto her neck, sending goose bumps down her arms. There was wetness on her skin and strange noises coming from his throat. Her own eyes filled with water. He wouldn't let her turn and face him. She tried and he held her in place. So she stayed still, letting him find what comfort he could on his own. It took a long time for him push himself away from her. She felt him picking at the buttons on the back of her dress; a nervous habit, she knew, not an attempt to undress her. Rolling over she took his hands in hers, kissing the hair on his knuckles.

"Don't go," he pleaded.

"Never," she promised.


	7. Little Lion Man

"Found us a nest!" Gregor shouted from up above them. He turned his head, along with Miller, to see what Gregor was on about.

His older brother descended the stairs of the loft two at a time, three girls grasped within his hands by the hair. All three girls were crying, shouting out in pain and trying to free their tresses from Gregor's fingers. It would do them no good. He knew better than most. Once Gregor wanted to move a person they moved, no matter what, and didn't stop until he said so. The two in front, his brother kicked at to make them advance. Each seemed near the age of fifteen, just barely turned women. Both had dark hair. Not black like his; theirs was a brown found so deep in the earth one usually didn't see it unless there was a grave to be dug. There had been braids at some point, pinning their hair into place but now it was in ruins, pulled and twisted savagely in Gregor's hands. The one being dragged behind was smaller. Twelve, maybe thirteen, with hair that leaned more towards blonde than brown. She wailed while trying to get her footing. Gregor was moving too fast and with too much force for her to keep up. She was being dragged, screaming, while Gregor paid her no mind.

"Got one for you, little brother. Think you can keep it up to make a woman out of this one? You man enough to really fuck yet?" Gregor sneered at him, throwing the near blonde at his feet. The girl stayed on the floor, weeping into his boots and running her fingers across her scalp. He could see patches where hair was missing and blood was beginning to seep through.

His stomach threatened to empty itself. This was not a part of soldiering he could handle. It wasn't a new concept to him. He knew other man partook but the whole idea had never settled right inside him. He'd tried before, once. He'd given it his best effort; stiff and swollen he'd rubbed his cock against an entrance dry as parchment and looked into eyes that had fogged over with sheer terror. Glancing down onto her chest and arms he'd seen his own hands pinning her, and suddenly all he could think of was hands on his own chest and arms while something sacred had been taken from him. The response to his cock was swift. Any blood that had been raised drained away, while he tucked himself back into his breeches and stumbled from the tiny room. He never knew what had happened to that one.

After that he'd managed to avoid the situation all together. Most of the men didn't even notice. Some gave him what seemed like a knowing, world weary look when they walked together past small little houses and shacks, grunts and woman's shrieks pouring out into the streets to fill their ears. The small band of men chose to spend their time after a fight together, drinking or whoring if there were slags available. It seemed a different type of rape but at least everyone was in agreement over the terms and conditions. And then there were the very few men, like his brother, who thought there must be something wrong with him in mind or body. Ball-less, runt, eunuch, and lesser lion, a stab at both his manhood and his house duty, became new names spat at him. He beat every one of them to the brink of death except for Gregor. Gregor made him eat dirt time and time again.

And now he found him self somehow trapped in a house with his cunt of a brother, a lackey who smelled of piss and three sobbing maidens. Gregor held both the dark haired girls up near his face, trying to decide which he wanted. They all knew better than to argue with whom he paired together. The girl's toes skimmed the dirt floor beneath them as their arms flailed usually in the air. The eldest spat in Gregor's face. Gregor gave her an evil grin and used her sister's hair to wipe at his face.

"You need a lesson in courtesy, lass," Gergor laughed. It was a terrible sound, full of dark promises. The youngest was tossed to Miller. With his hand now free, Gregor belted the older one across the face. Blood flew from her mouth to hit him across the cheek. This was going to end in more than just a rape, he realized. None of the girls were going to come out of the next hour alive. The little one at his feet continued on moaning and rocking on the floor.

Miller howled in triumph, slamming his prize down on a table and immediately digging through her skirts. The middle one fought, trying to claw at Miller's face. All it got her was a blow to the stomach and her skull knocked harshly on the wood beneath her. Dazed, she groaned and went still as blood began to gather underneath her head. The only mercy in it was that Miller was known to be quick to fire and he would more than likely bleed her out when it was done. The rat faced, smelly man liked to strangle sometimes, but not often. Gergor was the true monster. Gregor liked to take his time. The Mountain had his claim up against a wall, using his knife to torment the girl. His brother would place it near her eye and back off, then move it to her throat, wait for her to sob and then remove the tip. Gregor glanced his way.

"You gonna do something, dog, or you saving her for me?"

That moved him. If he didn't do something Gregor most certainly would and that fate would be far worse than anything he would do to the girl. His first thought had been to turn on his heel and leave but the pitiful lump on the floor would then be left to watch her sister's succumb and die before her. So he hefted her up, under her knees and shoulders. She looked at him with hope. He gave her none as he dropped her down in a corner, as far from Gregor as he could mange in the cramped space.

His second thought had been to walk right out of the room with her. But Gregor wouldn't have fallen for that. His brother wasn't nearly as stupid as some thought he was. That scenario would have ended with the eldest's brains dashed in quickly while Gregor tore the youngest from his arms. If he fought, he'd more than likely take a beating and the girl would lose. If he managed to win, and set the girl free within the Northern territory, she'd starve, freeze or be picked up by someone far worse than him on the road. He had little supplies he could offer her. Enough to see her through a day or two if wolves or men didn't have at her first. The girl was going to die no matter what he did.

He twisted the child's frame around so he could keep an eye on the other men. Miller wheezed like a birthing sow into the limp body of the middle girl. Gregor was breaking the eldest's fingers one by one. The girl was so far gone in pain that all she did was whimper and shake, like a poisoned animal in its death throws. There was a large stain of wetness at her front of her dress. She'd soiled herself and he knew Gregor wouldn't give a damn. His brother would slam his cock into anything, living, dead, wounded, bleeding, it never mattered.

The little one beneath his loins didn't fight; only quivered and whispered "please" over and over again at him. Her eyes were large, knowledge creeping into them, like a doe, suddenly finding itself dying with an arrow through the heart. Shoving her legs apart, he tugged at the buttons of his breeches. He was limp as a highborn's handshake but he pushed himself to her heat anyway. Her small clothes stayed over her core while he continued on with the ruse. She looked at him with hopeful eyes again and he twisted his face into a grimace; one that he knew would set his scars into a terrifying mask. The girl yelped and started to cry. That was good. Gregor wouldn't interfere if he heard weeping. Finally, he saw Gregor lift the older one's skirts. His brother rutted like a bull against the wall. And that was when he had the opportunity to pull his knife from its sheath. It was all the mercy he had to give. She was already dead. Her eyes went wider with panic as she started to scream and he clamped his hand down over her lips.

He mouthed that he was sorry. He was. Seven Hells weren't going to be enough for him. Tears came to his eyes as he drew his knife across her throat. Blood poured over his wrist, down into the dust to turn her blonde hair red. He held her eyes and watched as life turned to death. Wiping her blood off of his knife onto his own clothes, he stood, cupping at his groin. Gregor looked his way when he got up.

"The fuck happened?" Gregor shouted, taking note of the spreading pool of blood.

"Bitch kicked her heel in me," he barked. "Fucking cunt!" He spat near the dead girl's head. He didn't have to fake the flushed redness of his face or the wetness in his eyes. His brother stared hard at him and he willed the man to accept his demeanor as anger not sorrow.

"Doesn't need to be living to get what you want. Makes it easier," Gregor said harshly, pumping into the lifeless girl he had pinned to the wall. She cried out softly, barely any light left in her and Gregor punched her hard in the ribs. Miller squealed on top of his girl, collapsing onto her while clasping a dirty hand around her throat.

"Fuck her yourself!" he hollered, turning from the vulgar display in front of him. He marched from the room, knowing Gregor wouldn't follow. Not with his cock still stuck up in a girl. The Lannisters pushed him for Knighthood. His brother was a Knight. His brother, who burned little boys and murdered all. Tortured young girls and raped warm corpses. He wasn't his brother and he'd tell the whole world to bugger off before he ever became a Knight. That night, after many bottles of wine, he had to take to the woods. Behind a massive tree he sank to his knees, thinking of doe eyes and biting at the heel of his hand to quiet his sobs.


	8. Timshel

It started with the youngest. Too much time spent among the small children of Winterfell's growing numbers had left their boy of three name days coughing and achy. Osha and Sansa did their best to comfort the young one but two days later there was fever present and a red rash that spread like wildfire on his little chest. The two oldest boys were next to succumb to the hellish fever and blistering rash. Sansa and he had only four children, three boys and one girl. It was hard for him to watch most of his children suffering through pain.

Sansa tried to soothe him. It was a child hood illness, she explained to him. She, Arya and Jon had gone through the same thing. It was uncomfortable, yes, but not a horrible suffrage as he imagined and the children would bounce back, bright as ever in a week or so.

The Maester and Sam kept a close eye on them. They made compresses for their chests and gave them special, herbal teas to drink. The two older boys, six and seven name days, made it through faster than their younger brother. And just when all seemed well, Fira, their precious nestling of four, started to cough. She was immediately placed in a sick bed; the same treatments that were given to her siblings were heaped upon her. But, where the boys showed improvement after five or so days, Fira seemed to slip farther into the fever. Her entire body and face was red as an apple and she complained of it itching terribly. Sores broke out and bled and he was advised to stop visiting her room. He had never taken with the strange fever as a lad and couldn't remember Gergor or his sister bearing the illness either. It was rare for an adult to catch the disease, but not unheard of, he was told. It was best that he keep away from the girl, least he end up with it as well. Those who had already had the fever and rash were less likely to go through another round and so they were allowed to tend to the girl. Sansa, Gilly and the Maester all kept vigil. Osha divided her time between running supplies to the young girl's room and tending to the boys. Jon visited when he was able to try and lift the girl's spirits. Sam, who could not recall having ever suffered the fever, sat quiet company with him for hours outside Fira's door, knowing better than to speak.

He could hear Fira cough and cry through the door while Sansa sang to her. It pained him greatly. He had always had a soft spot for his only girl, his second Little Bird. A week went by and her condition did not improve. She grew listless, would barely eat, and the cough had settled deep in her lungs. Sansa and Gilly spent nearly all of their time by the girl's side. Neither one of them would give him any details; only forced smiles or words of hope he knew they believed less and less with each passing day. Jon would leave the room and look at him blankly. Only Osha, in her rough wilding way, took him aside each day and gave him point blank descriptions. It was better that he know, she told him. The girl was fading fast. The sores on her body had taken over her mouth making food and drink near impossible to take in. The cough in her chest was a rattle and the Maester was fearful his healing ways were not going to be enough. He went numb at her words.

By the tenth night, Fira entered a sleep so deep no one could wake her. Sansa no longer slept in their bed, instead, choosing to nap in a large chair or cot by Fira's pallet. He turned to stone. Osha forced him to eat. Sam took to the libraries, searching every obscure tome he could find, hoping to stumble upon anything useful. Jon tried his best to reassure him.

"Sansa's just like the Lady Stark before her. Sitting up all night beside Bran. Fira will wake just as he did. You'll see," Jon said.

But he knew when he was being lied to. He was a soldier, same as Jon, and could read through the wrinkled brow and the waver in the young man's voice with ease. He wasn't deaf; he could hear Sansa's crying through the door. He wasn't blind; he could see his little girl's pale, frail form through the crack in the door whenever someone entered or exited the room. On the twelfth night Osha slipped out of the room, tears in her eyes.

"You'd best be sitting with her m'lord, if that is your wish," the wilding told him, voice quivering like he'd never heard before. Osha was near as unbreakable as he. "She's not likely to make it to morning."

The Maester warned against it but he told the man he could go bugger himself. Sam pulled a weeping Gilly from the room so that he and Sansa could sit with their treasure as a family in peace. Jon came after an hour or so, kissed the young one on the forehead and hugged Sansa. She wailed in her half brother's arms and he grew angry over the fact that she had yet to do so in his. Wasn't he the one she should find solace in at this time? His jaw clenched in fury at the world once again. If the Gods had any mercy they would see fit to give him the fever as well so that he could lay in the tombs with his daughter. It wasn't right. He should have been the one to usher her into the afterlife and not the other way around.

Fira shivered and whimpered in her fevered slumber. Her hair had been plaited but looked dull, with strands of it plastered to her face from sweat. It used to shine like raven's wings. So dark, just like his, that you could catch glimpses of blue within it. Her lips were parted, dry and cracked and he couldn't take it any longer. Scooping Fira up off the bed, he bundled her into a blanket and wrapped his arms tight around her, sitting back down in his chair. He barked at Jon to hand him a cup of honeyed water and dribbled it into Fira's mouth, a drop at a time with his own finger, moistening her lips and tongue. If she was going to die then she would be warm, safe and comfortable. It was the last thing he could give her. He recalled weeping when she'd been placed in his arms, minutes after her birth. Boys were good but he had always secretly wanted a girl.

"Da's here," he whispered into her ear, praying she could hear him. He had always jumped at the opportunity to hold her when she was an infant and cried out in the night.

She had shown promise at being a Lady but he had also taught her to do summersaults in a dress, catch frogs and spit, much to Sansa's dismay.

He knew he was nothing but sin in his youth. He had tried hard to cleanse himself after the Blackwater. What act had he done that was so vile it could warrant the Stranger stealing his little girl away? His mind fought back through years of memories to try and find the one that had brought this punishment upon him. He couldn't find it. Sansa was his first love but Fira was surely his second. Though Sansa and he shared a bed, a name, children and love they were not blood. The boys and Fira were his blood as were his mother and sister. Why could the Gods not let him keep one woman he shared blood with?

Jon had left and Sansa crawled her way over to him, kneeling on the floor by his leg. She laid her head in the bit of space left on his knee and pulled Fira's hand from the blanket so she could kiss it over and over again. Her tears wet his breeches and he felt the tiniest fissure of an all consuming grief break through his shell of granite. Perhaps he did deserve this sorrowful sentence but Sansa did not.

They spent most of the night like that. He slowly feeding their girl drops of water and Sansa sniffling at his feet. Towards dawn, Gilly and Sam burst through the door. Sam had found something. It was an ancient remedy and on the verge of being silly folk lore but it might work. There was nothing else to lose. Gilly cupped a warm bowl of some sort of tincture in her hands allowing him to spoon it carefully past the little one's lips. It took hours to get the entire bowl inside her. When he was done, Gilly offered to hold Fira, so that he could rest. He growled at her to go away and fetch more of the purplish, sour smelling concoction. Sansa was near to the point of passing out. Sam led her over to Fira's bed, where she fell into a fitful sleep for a few hours.

Osha brought him food later on, letting Sansa sleep while she could. Setting the tray full of small bits of cubed food on a table near his arm, Osha nodded her head at him and left. He ignored the offering. Near dark Osha brought a fresh tray of bread, meat and fruit, taking the untouched plate from earlier away. Sansa pecked at some sliced pear while he refused to even look at any of it. He was working on getting the third bowl of Gilly's brew into his daughter. The Maester made poultices for Fira's chest and said she didn't seem to be improving, though on the other hand, she didn't seem to be faltering anymore. The wise man warned the both of them that it could be just a false lull of peace before death and not to build their hopes too high.

Sansa tried to take Fira from him, begging him to lie down in the bed as she had. He shouted at her, hating himself the entire time and yet, not able to let the girl go. Fira was still clinging to life and he wouldn't leave her until she had decided if she wished to stay or go. Sansa stayed up as long as she was able, falling asleep wrapped in a blanket by his boots.

In the morning, Gilly brought him more of the remedy Sam had found and led a stumbling Sansa from the room to help her bathe and dress in something fresh. Osha arrived with more food and placed it on the usual table. When he didn't move she grabbed one of his hands and shoved a roll into it. He threw it at the wall.

"Damn you! Eat something!" the wildling roared at him. "You're no good to her weak or dead. She's not gone yet. She's only slipped farther down with everyone else but she's hanging on for you. Stupid man! Eat and keep at it!"

Osha forced another roll in his hand and he chewed at it in a detached daze, tears blurring his vision. When he'd finished with the roll, there was an apple in his hand and when he was through that, some cheese. Only after he'd eaten the lot of it did Osha leave him. Near the afternoon she brought stew. Sansa had come back as well, looking slightly more herself, her eyes not quite as glazed over. The rattle in Fira's chest seemed to have lessened the smallest amount. He gave the girl over to Sansa alone when Osha yelled at him again that he needed rest, just a few short hours. If Fira's condition changed at all they would wake him. He swallowed down the stew without tasting it and laid on Fira's bed, as Sansa had. He had to curl into a ball in order to fit but he wouldn't leave the room. He slept until dark, not meaning to but losing himself to exhaustion.

A third night he kept his baby girl in his arms. They tried broth and warm milk as well as Gilly's tincture. The Maseter visited near midnight and listened to Fira's chest. The rattle seemed to be abating and the fever lessening but it would be better if the young one would open her eyes or give them some sign of life. She was not clear from the clutches of death until then. Sansa sat at his fee,t as she had done before, but made her way to the bed and dozed off at some point in the early hours before dawn.

There was nothing but him and the breathing of his two women for a long time. Bowls of various liquids, that Osha had left, sat on the table near him. He dipped his finger into one after the other, forcing nourishment and healing tonics into the girl. There was a moment when he stuck his finger, covered in broth, to her lips and she suckled, feeble as a runt piglet, back. He choked on his relieved sob. Using a clean rag, he dipped the corner into the cooled broth and let her suck at it as much as she wanted while water continued to escape him. Sansa woke at the noise. She leapt out of the bed at the sight of him feeding Fira. She squeezed him around the neck, kissed at his burns and told him it was going to be alright; her own tears mixing with his. For the first time in many days he believed.

It took another full day before Fira's eyes opened. The first thing she said was a questioning "da" and he lost himself to great, wracking sobs all over again. Sansa had once again been lured away by Gilly to be tended by her. Jon had been there. He wept like a babe into his girl's chest while she sighed and weakly pulled at his hair. He felt a hand at his shoulder and looked up. Jon sniffed while rubbing at his nose.

"I told you," Jon reminded him with a tight voice. "Just like Bran."

Fira looked at them both confused before complaining that she was thirsty for cider. He laughed, scrubbing the tears off his face with the corner of her blanket. Jon went to fetch her an entire pitcher. When Jon returned, a frantic Sansa ran through the door first. He held Fira out to her, allowing her to press the little one to her chest while she wailed out happy tears and kissed their girl's face. He rose from his chair to encircle both of them within his arms. Jon left the pitcher on the table and shut the door behind him as he left.

"You saved her," Sansa whispered in awe, looking at him as he'd never seen her do before. He reached behind him to pour a small cup of iced cider and offered it to Fira, who drank greedily.

It took days for Fira to regain her strength fully, but she did. He spent many hours a day tending to her himself. The fever never took him. A fortnight after she had licked at his finger, she was running in the small yard with her brothers. He watched all his children laugh and roll on the ground, grateful to someone for not taking his children from him. Sansa snuck up beside him, watching the children, and gliding her hand over to pull on one of his. She laid his hand over her lower belly.

"The new one will be pleased to meet her siblings," she smiled, never taking her eyes off of Fira. Sansa always had a sense for what gender their children would be. She had never been wrong. That night he spent himself within her, for the first time since Fira had taken ill, shaking powerfully and near tears. He fell asleep with his face pressed to the new life growing within his wife's womb. The Gods hadn't been cruel after all.


End file.
